


The cottage has been sold. But to whom?

by Mothfluff



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Ineffable husbands - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Canon, Rumours, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Sugar Daddy, it all turns into fluff though don't worry, outsider's point of view, two strangers moving into a tiny village - there are bound to be rumours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-12 23:28:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20164390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mothfluff/pseuds/Mothfluff
Summary: The cottage in the village has been sold. Naturally, the village needs to know who bought it.It's not much help that the two strange men moving in are as eccentric as can be, so the rumours start flying.





	The cottage has been sold. But to whom?

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a very silly thing I wrote quickly after wondering 'Just how would the poor towns people of the South Downs cottage react to THOSE TWO moving in?'

The cottage has been sold.

The rumours have been going round the pub for days now.

„The cottage has been sold?“ Aisling asks with an incredulous stare, wiping the bar a few times too much, as Bobby the regular in front of her nods into his beer.

„Been sold. Above price, even, I'v'eard.“

„I thought it were meant to be demolished next summer, wasnit?“ Wilfred asks from two barstools over – Wilfred and Bobby don't sit near each other, haven't since 1974, and Bobby knows very well why, but they still like a good chat, so what's there left to do, safe for keeping a few stools between them?

„Aye.“ Bobby snorts, and some foam from his beer floats onto the bartop Aisling had just wiped again. „Musta been some right bloody idiots, thinking they can fix it up. 5 quid says they're running off swearing in two months time.“

Wilfred isn't one to bet money, not since 1974, and Bobby knows very well why, but he can't resist that bet. He goes for one month, tops.

-*-

The cottage has been sold, and the buyers have come round to look at it properly.

„Some very fancy lads, well, one of them at least, the other one I don't quite know about.“ Margaret huffs over her tea, and the rest of the ladies bend forward, teacups in dainty fingers, waiting to hear more.

„I didn't talk to them, of course, they seemed quite busy, I think there was some fighting, well, arguing, one doesn't want to presume. But my Harold spoke to them for a minute when the dog ran up to them.”

All eyes now on Harold, hiding behind a newspaper in the armchair on the other end of the room – he doesn't like interrupting his wife's tea parties, but a man's got a schedule, and right now the schedule says newspapers and a nice cuppa in his armchair, and not one of the 7 ladies of Margaret's tea party can keep him from it.

The newspaper shuffles a bit, after they keep staring at it, and he hums. “From London, they said. Looking for a quieter place now that they're retiring.”

“They didn't look the retiring age, dear.” Margaret interrupts, and Harold snaps his newspaper in the air.

“Well, that's what they said, retiring. I don't know what one does in London to afford a derelict cottage in the country while retiring at 50, but I assume the darker lad is the one who does it. Don't think either of them knows what honest work is.”

“Harold!” Margaret chides him, but has to admit her husband is right, given what she'd seen from a distance of the two gentlemen.

-*-

The cottage has been sold, the buyers have looked at it, and now there's a bit of construction going on.

“Maybe it's one of them 'Grand Design' telly things.” Rupert is leaning against a fence, staring at the cottage half-draped in do-not-cross banners, while Spot the dog is sniffing around his feet. “Tearing half of it out and replacing it with concrete and special stones from Italy or someplace.”

Todd, leaning on the other side of the fence, nods in agreement. Seems likely, from what he has heard about the new neighbours, and he's heard quite a lot now despite them only showing up twice in town. They seem an eccentric lot, and people from London are always talking about building and re-building.

“Maybe they're gonna sell it on afterwards. Don't seem the type to settle down around here. Margaret says they're only in their 40s or 50s.”

“I heard they was much older'n that. Talking about a shop running for decades or somethin'.”

“Nah, not a grey hair on either of them. Maybe from their families. Reckon that's where they got the money from.” People from London often got money from 'families', Todd knew that, so he just nodded again while Rupert picked up Spot's leash.

“Well, s'long as they behave themselves while they're here. Don't want any rumours in town, do we?”

-*-

The cottage has been sold, the buyers have looked at it, the construction is done, and now there is a moving truck coming in.

The kids are sent out to play in the field, and if they see anything and talk about it at home, well, what can you do? They're just kids.

But they don't have much to say, no matter how much trifle they get for dessert.

“It's not a 'Grand Design' building, grampa.” Little Paulie says without spitting too much pudding back on the plate. “S'just the old cottage but pretty, a bit bigger.”

“They need all the space for the books!” Olive is jumping up and down in her seat, far too giddy for just two spoonfuls of trifle. “So many books! They kept carrying them out, and the bird one kept moaning about it!”

“There's not a bird among them, Olive, they're both lads.” Oscar scolds her, barely two years older.

“No, but one of them's named like a bird! A crow, or something!” Still more jumping. “The other one's an angel! He gave us biscuits and said it was all his books!”

“Now where on earth would you get that idea?” Her grandma asks, trying hard to keep her in her seat, now that the mystery of her sugar rush was explained.

“S'what the bird one kept calling him.” Paulie mumbles into another spoon of trifle, and grandma and grandpa share a knowing look.

-*-

The cottage has been sold, the buyers have looked at it, the construction is done, the moving truck's empty, and now the 'couple' has moved in.

“Well?” One of the tea party ladies asks. “Are they?”

“Are they what?” Harold mumbles from behind his newspaper again. He'd met the two gentlemen, again while walking the dog, and while he wasn't one to have a chat with strangers, he knew his Margaret would want to know, so he'd obliged.

“You know.” Elizabeth wiggled her eyebrows while taking a sip. “Together?”

“Well they're living together in the cottage, yes.”

“No, Harold.” Margaret interrupts yet again. “Are they gay?”

“They seemed quite happy.” Not that it seemed as if the dark one could actually smile with his full mouth instead of just one corner of it, but he had held the chipper one's hand quite softly. Not that Harold was going to tell the chattering ladies _that._

Margaret just huffs something about her husband being a know-nothing.

“They _are._” Elizabeth confirms a few days later, after having spotted them at the nearby park. “No question about it.”

A few excited gasps from the group, who has decided to meet at Donna's place this time, to leave Harold and his newspaper and no-news alone.

“What did you see?!”

“Oh it was all rather lovely, I have to say.” Elizabeth smiles into her tea. “They were strolling along the lake holding hands, and then they sat down on a bench together feeding ducks, and the older gentleman leant over and kissed the tall dark one on the cheek. That's all.” She remembered her own courting days, long ago, with Wilfred, and recalls a few tender moments like that. It had all seemed very soft, and she didn't dare to interrupt them, despite her previous decision to finally say hello to the newcomers in town.

The rest of the ladies cooed.

“Well, isn't that sweet. A lovely couple, then. How wonderful.” Margaret smiles, and tries to hide the disappointment. It wasn't often that two strangers from London moved to town, and she'd been hoping for a bit more, well, drama.

-*-

The cottage has been sold, the buyers have looked at it, the construction is done, the moving truck's empty, the _couple_ has moved in, and they are now sitting in the little teashop on Main street.

The teashop is full. It usually is, being the only teashop in town, really, and a good place to swap some stories if you don't really want to go for a full pint at the pub down the street. But it's fuller now, which is obviously not because of the two gentlemen in the window seat, enjoying the afternoon sun.

“We could've just gone for a pint.” The dark one grumbles.

“Nonsense, my dear. I haven't had a proper cup of tea for a week now because _you_ forgot to pack the kettle-”

“_We_ forgot to pack-”

“The kettle is still in London, so I need some tea. And maybe some cake.”

The dark one grumbles again, but doesn't say anything, and Sarah feels it's the right moment to step in with the tiny menu cards.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen! If you've not been to our teashop before, may I recommend the Victoria Sponge cake today? It's quite lovely, and a recipe from my great grandmother.”

“Oh, that does sound lovely, doesn't it Crowley?”

Ah, that's the bird one then, Grandpa Rupert thinks to himself, while his wife is busy not so subtly staring at the two. The other one must be the angel, and he has to admit, the description fits.

Crowley grumbles again, and confirms it. “If you want it, angel. I'll get the chocolate mousse cake then. And a pot of tea, please.”

He says nothing until their food and tea is delivered, but the angel keeps on chattering. What a lovely little town, a lovely tea shop, a lovely place they've found here, everything is quite lovely, and judging from Crowley's face, even hidden behind his glasses, this is not a new story for him to hear. He smiles nonetheless, the tiniest of smiles, but it's with his whole mouth, not like old Harold had seen.

Then the cakes arrive, and the angel starts digging in, while Crowley only eats two fork-fulls of his before pushing it over.

-*-

The cottage has been sold, the buyers have looked at it, the construction is done, the moving truck's empty, the couple has moved in, and they have just left the teashop after tipping generously.

“Well, that's something.” Elizabeth can't help but still smile about the two.

“A rather mismatched pair, you could say.” Margaret can't help but judge a little.

“They do seem... unique.” Donna adds.

“Did you see Mr. Crowley eat nothing, but pay for everything?” Harold chimes in. “Told you he's the one who earns the money.” He earns a quick whap from Margaret's elbow for that.

“Maybe he likes to keep fit. Not much space for cake, then. He seems quite thin.” Todd remembers the thin, hip, young people he'd seen on a daytrip to London. Mr. Crowley wouldn't look amiss between them, despite his age, with his long hair and dark outfit and tight trousers.

“Maybe he likes to keep his _angel._” Bobby leans in, a knowing grin to his face.

“What do you mean?”

“I've seen this kinda thing.” Bobby says, the grin slowly leaving his face as he sips his tea instead of the pint he'd wanted to get. “S'usually with a young lady and a fashion-y guy like that, but to each their own.”

“What do you _mean_, Bobby.” Elizabeth leans over, and he's never seen such a hard stare on the little old lady ever since 1974, and he hadn't hoped to see it again.

“Well, just.” He coughs a little. “Just a thing from London, or big cities, really. Some top-notch rich guy looking for, eh, well, a partner and jus', payin' for everything. Enjoying some nice time out with their friend. That kinda thing.”

“That is a horribly mean thing to say, Robert Rusky, and I sure hope you don't believe it about these lovely two gentlemen!”

The rest of the teashop nods in agreement, but they can't help but wonder.

-*-

The cottage has been sold, the buyers have looked at it, the construction is done, the moving truck's empty, the couple has moved in, and they have been everywhere by now.

The lakeside. The teashop. The charity shops (buying a lot of books and a rather lovely black shirt). The supermarket (arguing about whether clotted cream or marmalade goes first). The pub (Mr. Crowley finally getting his pint, and Mr. Fell – as Sarah had sussed out after a few more teashop visits – enjoying a full dinner, with Mr. Crowley paying yet again).

Everywhere they went, eyes were on them. Everywhere they went, it seemed the same spiel.

Mr. Fell wanted something, Mr. Crowley would groan, Mr. Fell would smile or tut or put a hand to his shoulder, and Mr. Crowley would pay.

It almost seems like Bobby Rusky had been right, but none of the villagers really wanted to start any more rumours (or at least didn't want to be the one everyone thought of starting a rumour).

Little Olive, not quite as shy, runs up to the both of them sitting on their usual bench at the lake (two months, and they already had a usual bench).

“Mr. Fell!” She yells, jumping up and down in her rainboots and sturdy jeans. Mr. Fell smiles at her – they'd seen a lot of each other, now that she and her brothers had come over to play in the field near their cottage every other day, always getting treated to a biscuit or two and told to stay away from the flowers Mr. Crowley had just planted.

“Mr. Fell!” She repeats, and he can only nod before her question tumbles out. “Is it true that you and Mr. Crowley are in love?”

Dorothee, a few benches down, gasps and holds her breath. Rupert is too far away with the dog and the two boys to hear it.

Mr. Fell sputters. “Ah, well, Olive, you see, that is,... rather a private, honestly... you shouldn't just run up-”

“Oh, come on, angel.” Mr. Crowley interjects, and his voice sounds softer than Dorothy has ever heard it before while eavesdropping. “The kid's just asking questions.” He leans forward from his slouch, elbows on knees now, to grin at the little girl. “We are indeed, just like your mum and dad. That's not a bad thing, is it?”

Olive only shakes her head, giggles, and jumps again. Mr. Fell is bright red when she runs back to her grandma, clearly not helped by Mr. Crowley stroking his neck and still grinning.

Well, Dorothy thinks to herself, that was _something _to share with the tea party.

-*-

The cottage has been sold, the buyers have looked at it, the construction is done, the moving truck's empty, the couple has moved in, they have been everywhere by now, everyone knows about them, and the tea party has no more favourite topic than this.

“I hate to admit, but I think Bobby is right about the whole thing.” Margaret has concluded this a few days ago, after seeing Mr. Crowley spend an extraordinary amount at the fleamarket two towns over for a few rare books that Mr. Fell clutched to his heart.

“You really think he's... paying Mr. Fell to be his... friend? Partner?” Dorothee still had a hard time around the right phrasing, and hard time believing the strange dark man would be willing to do that when he seemed so miserable at any point. “He doesn't seem happy for someone who's paying for what they want.”

“Maybe he's not the type to show emotions. Lots of quiet, broody types in London. Maybe that's what he likes about Mr. Fell.” Mr. Fell, who always seemed to be beaming with sunshine next to his gloomy bird.

“But Mr. Fell would never be so- the man has class, I have to say.” Interjects Dorothee, who by now had had quite a few chitchats with the fellow, while collecting the grandkids from playing. He seemed nothing but a proper gentleman. Not someone who sold themselves for any amount of money.

“Lord knows what people get up to in London, even those with class. Or especially those.” Harold mumbles from behind his newspaper, and Margaret doesn't even have time to scold him before Elizabeth, quiet, sweet Elizabeth breaks in.

“I think they are both very lovely and very happy to be here, no matter the circumstances. And we should let them have the quiet time they've obviously been searching for. Why does it have to be anything naughty or amoral just because they're two gentlemen from London?”

No one was quite sure what to say after that. Especially since Elizabeth was usually right on the money when it came to defusing rumours, had been for years now, even fore 1974.

-*-

The cottage has been sold, the buyers have looked at it, the construction is done, the moving truck's empty, the couple has moved in, they have been everywhere by now, everyone knows them, and they are finally _home_.

Aziraphale is sitting in his armchair in the large library, looking out through the winter garden into the actual garden, where Crowley is hard at work. Not that he's stopped his usual way of encouraging his plants, but it now comes mixed in with actual work, planting and pruning and weeding. He pretends not to like it, and Aziraphale pretends to believe him.

They've been to the local garden centre five times this month, and Aziraphale can't help but giggle when Crowley buys a waggonload of things that miraculously fit into the Bentley every time.

“What's so funny, angel? The roses need special compost, I told you-”

“No, no. I'm just wondering how the people in the village combine your spending habits on yourself here with their usual rumours.”

“What rumours?” Crowley stares at him from above his glasses, and the glint in his eye tells Aziraphale that he knows all too well what rumours.

“Oh, the ones about you being my Sugar Daddy and all that. Though I don't think any of them know the proper term for that whole scenario.”

“And how do you know it, angel?”

“I'm not _that _naive, my dear.”

“Well, then.” And Crowley grins again. “How about another cup of tea and some cake at the teashop? Only for the rumours, of course.”

“Of course.”

Aziraphale thinks about their afternoon at the teashop while watching Crowley work, and almost grins when he remembers the two old ladies falling over their own teacups watching them. Crowley had ordered 4 slices of cake this time, and eaten none, as usual.

He gets up from his book, which has proven to be not as interesting as the sight in the garden, and putters into the kitchen, bright and sunny and full of spices and herbs and ingredients, now that they've started to practice some things from the many cookbooks he's found at the local fleamarkets.

A few minutes later, and a cold glass of lemonade is pushed against the demon's sweaty neck. It would make him squeal in surprise, if he hadn't noticed his angel sneaking into the garden a minute ago.

“A sugary drink for a sugar daddy?” He says as he stands up, takes off the grimy gardening gloves, and takes the glass out of Aziraphale's hand, not before brushing along it with his fingers.

“I figured you wouldn't want hot tea right now.”

“How very considerate of you, as always, angel. But maybe I'd prefer the taste of tea over all this sweet.”

“Oh, well.” Aziraphale sputters, not quite sure what to do about the look in Crowley's eyes that clearly tells him he's up to something. “I can make some iced tea next time-”

“No need for that. I know where to get my taste of tea from.” And then he's pulled in, one hand behind his neck, as Crowley kisses him, the taste of lemonade only just sipped still on his lips, and both of them giggle a bit as they break apart, foreheads still touching.

What a silly little moment. They have so many of them now, but never enough, considering they have to make up for six thousand years.

On the other side of the road, over a hedge, Dorothy and Elizabeth have stopped walking the dog at quite a good moment, it seems. They share a look.

“I think you were right, Elizabeth.” Dorothy says. “I think they are both very happy to be here.”

Elizabeth nods, and smiles. She knows love when she sees it.


End file.
